


Set a Course for Winds of Fortune

by maychorian



Series: Supernatural Shorts [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Gen, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: Ficlet roundup for Supernatural. Most of these were never put on ff.n. First batch is Dean vs. wasps, Bobby patches up an injured Dean, ribbons, werewolves.Posted to LJ on 4/27/09.





	1. Chapter 1

**And Peach Pie for Dessert**  for [](https://i-speak-tongue.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://i-speak-tongue.livejournal.com/) **i_speak_tongue**  
  
“Like a cat,” Daddy said, smiling wide and warm when he came home at night smelling of oil and sweat and cars, and Mommy told him all about what Dean had been getting into that day. “He’s just a curious little fella, that’s all.” And he reached out to ruffle Dean’s hair, tossing it all over the place, making him giggle until his stomach hurt.  
  
“Yes, but the spice cupboard?” Mommy swayed gently back and forth, rocking baby Sammy in her arms. Her voice was a little rough and high, but she wasn’t really mad, Dean knew. Mommy almost never got mad, but when she did…whoo! Worse than a thunderstorm. That was the time for hiding under beds. “He dumped out all of the cinnamon and ginger. Every last bit. No more apple pie, John. No more apple pie.”  
  
Daddy pouted, and Mommy threw a towel at him, and Dean laughed and clapped his hands while Sammy waved one tiny fist in the air, joining in the fun.  
  
\---  
  
It looked like a honeycomb made of paper, like something from the Winnie the Pooh cartoons Mommy let him watch when he was good. It was hanging off the corner of the shed, gray and small and so, so interesting. Dean stared at it for a long time, his mouth hanging open in fascination, before going in search of a stick to knock it down. Pooh-Bear really liked honey a lot. Dean figured he probably would too.  
  
\---  
  
“Oh, baby…”  
  
Dean was still sniffling a long time later, but now he was all cuddled up in Mommy’s arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth in the special chair where she mostly only held Sammy anymore. Her long golden hair hung down around his face, shielding him from the afternoon light, too bright on his puffy, sore eyes.  
  
“My poor baby,” Mommy crooned, rubbing his back with her firm, strong hand. “At least cats have some fur to protect them from stingers. You’re just my little pink Deano, and you didn’t stand a chance, did you?”  
  
She smelled like laundry and sunlight and the last traces of ginger and cinnamon that she’d been chasing out of the corners of the kitchen with a broom and dustpan, and Dean hid his face against her and closed his eyes.  
  
\---  
  
“Daddy, Daddy, look!”  
  
He jumped into Daddy’s arms and showed him the scratchy dots of baking soda-water that peppered his face and arms, dry now and starting to flake off, but still soothing over the red stinging spots left by those nasty flying black things.  
  
“Oh, my boy’s got some war wounds, huh?” Daddy grabbed his hand and laid a kiss on his palm, careful to avoid the white spots. “Were you brave?”  
  
Dean nodded proudly. “So brave, Daddy. I only cried until they stopped hurting so much, and then I quit.”  
  
Mommy laughed in the kitchen, and Sammy gurgled in the bassinet, and Daddy grinned at him, brown eyes twinkling. “That’s my boy.”  
  
Still, Dean figured that he would stay away from those paper honeycomb things from now on. There were lots of other things he needed to explore, and no honey could possibly worth all the stingies. He didn’t know how Pooh put up with it.  
  
Daddy sniffed, turning his face toward the kitchen. “No more pie, Mary? Isn’t that what you said?”  
  
“No more apple pie, I said. This is peach.”  
  
“Ah. Even better.”  
  
And Daddy carried Dean into the kitchen and kissed Mommy on the neck, and then he put Dean down and scooped up Sammy and tossed him gently in the air, and they had beef and potatoes and carrots and peach pie for dessert, and everything was wonderful and perfect and just right.  
  
(End)  
  
**Fuel Stop**  for [](https://bellatemple.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://bellatemple.livejournal.com/) **bellatemple**  
  
"Swear I'm gonna kill that dog of yours, Bobby," Dean growled around the bottle of whiskey jammed firmly between his teeth. "This hurts like a son of a bitch."  
  
"Oh, quit yer whining, you big baby." They sat at Bobby's kitchen table, Dean with his feet firmly planted on the floor and one hand wrapped around a bottle, his entire body tense with the effort to stay still, Bobby bent over the young hunter's bloody forearm, wiping away the fluid to find the jagged gashes beneath. "It's not even that bad. Seen Rumsfeld give worse bites when he was playing."  
  
Dean gave him an incredulous stare, white all around his greeny-brown irises. "Don't lie to the injured man, dude. 'S freakin' tacky."  
  
Bobby snorted a laugh and started daubing antiseptic on the cuts, taking no care to be gentle. Served the dumb kid right. And it was true—they really weren't that bad. Dean could have gotten worse cuts running through a thorn bush. "'Swhat you get anyway for coming in smelling like a pack of werewolves, ya idjit."  
  
"Yeah, well, I didn't have much of a choice." Dean clenched the fist of the arm Bobby was working on, making his tendons stand out under the older hunter's fingers. "Runnin' on fumes here, man."  
  
Bobby looked up, then, took in the younger man's appearance. He'd been a little busy earlier, what with Dean stumbling in the door in the middle of the night chased by Rumsfeld's throaty growls, cursing and bleeding, but now he saw it. Dean was pale and drawn, darkness smudging both eyes. He looked thinner than the last time Bobby had seen him, too, and even as he watched the kid swayed slightly in his seat, blinking hard to hold on to consciousness.  
  
"What you been up to, boy?" Bobby snagged the roll of gauze out of the first aid and started wrapping Dean's forearm, surreptitiously looking over the rest of the kid's body for more blood, more wounds. It would be just like the dumbass boy to whine about some little cuts on his arm and never mention the cut on his back that was bleeding him dry.  
  
"Just hunting." Dean's voice was soft, now, his eyes contemplative as he gazed at the bottle in his hand.  
  
"Where's your daddy? Not with you, huh?"  
  
"He's hunting, too."  
  
Bobby cut off the gauze and tied it down, adding a few pieces of medical tape to shore up the bandage, though it looked as tight and professional as any of his patch jobs. "Well, you'd better sleep here tonight," he said gruffly, making it an order and not a suggestion. "Better stick around for a few days, too, make sure you don't get your stupid ass infected."  
  
Dean smiled, small but bright, all but wiping out the weariness in his eyes. "Yeah, okay. If you say so, old man."  
  
"I do." Bobby stood and hauled the kid to his feet, pushing him bodily toward the door. "Go put your butt on the couch before you pass out on my floor, idjit. I'll get you a spare blanket."  
  
Dean let Bobby manhandle him into the living room and push him down on the couch, and that in itself told Bobby just how worn down the poor kid was. He went upstairs for a blanket and pillow, muttering under his breath about stupid stubborn Winchesters with their heads up their asses, showing up at his doorstep at o'dark thirty and scaring his dogs. Dean grinned behind him, then let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes.  
  
Bobby would make Dean stick around for a few days on the pretense of watching for infection, feed him up, force him to sleep. Then maybe he'd have to come up with a few more excuses, cars he needed Dean's help working on, nearby hunts the kid could do using the salvage yard as a base, stuff like that. It wouldn't be too hard to come up with reasons. Bobby was no fool, not like the entire Winchester clan.  
  
Rumsfeld would help. He was a good dog. Bobby was sure it wouldn't take long for him and Dean to reconcile. A Milkbone and scratch behind the ears, after a shower to wash off the werewolf scent, and all would be well.  
  
Intentionally or not, Dean had come to the right place to refill his tank. No more running on fumes. Bobby would make sure of it, even if he had to sit on the stupid kid himself.  
  
(End)  
  
**That Time Again**  for [this gen battle](http://fox1013.livejournal.com/1606070.html)  
  
"Dad, you have  _got_  to give Sammy a haircut."  
  
Dean's young voice was oddly desperate. John barely glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, trying to track down an interesting obituary. He'd found one that sounded mysterious enough to need some investigation, and he was so engrossed that it was easy to ignore his kids running around the motel room whooping like wild Indians.  
  
Even now, he could hear Sammy running in circles, making a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEE" noise that strengthened and weakened regularly in a Doppler effect. It didn't worry him. Little boys did that.  
  
"Dad, _please._  His hair is way too long, seriously, and you said I'm not old enough to use the scissors yet."  
  
"That's right, you aren't," John said absently, turning the page and shaking out the newspaper. "I'll take care of it soon, okay?"  
  
"No, Dad,  _now._  Please cut it now. Sammy's kindergarten teacher is reading his class some weird book about this red-headed girl, and today they watched a movie, and Sammy loved it and now he won't quit..."  
  
Sammy was jumping up and down on the bed now, voice bouncing as he sang a cheerful, off-tune melody. "I am PIPPi LONGstocking, if you SAY it FAST it's FUNny..."  
  
Something tugged at John's memory, and he finally looked up, eyes wide, and actually looked at his younger son. Sammy continued bouncing up and down, still singing at the top of his lungs.  
  
"PIPPi, PIPPi, PIPPi, how I LOVE my FUNny NAME!"  
  
Oh,  _God._  Sam's hair was long enough that he had managed to make it stick out from both sides of his head in something that vaguely resembled braids, and where the hell had he found hair ribbons?  
  
"You see, Dad?" Dean looked up at him with big, pleading eyes. "We can't be seen in public like this!"  
  
"No, no, son, you're absolutely right," John said, hastily folding up his newspaper and jumping out of his chair. "You know where the scissors are?"  
  
Dean nodded gratefully and rushed to fetch them while John hied himself to the bed and tried to capture his wild five-year-old. Really, this ought to be a lesson to him. Always, always,  _always_  listen to Dean.  
  
(End)  
  
**We Won't Be Home Till Morning**  for [](https://jadeblood.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://jadeblood.livejournal.com/) **jadeblood**  
  
"It's definitely not a werewolf."  
  
"Oh, c'mon! It's totally a werewolf."  
  
"Dean, are you saying that because you really do believe it's a werewolf, or just because you think werewolves are cool and you're sad that we haven't fought any since we were kids?"  
  
"..."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"It's totally a werewolf!"  
  
"What if it's not, huh? What if we go into this hunt with extra guns and silver bullets and it turns out to be a completely different creature? What if our lack of preparation means we don't succeed, and the thing lives to kill again another day?"  
  
"Oh, take a chill pill, Sammy. As long as we're using bullets, we have a pretty good chance of killing it, whatever it is. Bullets kill lots of things. That's why I like 'em so much."  
  
"..."  
  
"Besides, it's totally a werewolf."  
  
"I still think we need to do more research. The cycle isn't quite right, and there's more than one supernatural entity that eats the heart out of victims' chests."  
  
"Whatever. It's close enough. Besides, dude,  _werewolf._  You know I'm right. Or at least you want me to be."  
  
"...Okay, I kind of want you to be right."  
  
"Because werewolves are awesome, am I right? Huh? Huh?"  
  
"...Yes, Dean, because werewolves are awesome."  
  
"That's right. And hey, while we're at it, we'll take along the salt and iron and purifying herbs and brush up on our Latin, too, just in case. Okay? Will that satisfy you?"  
  
"All right. I guess that will work."  
  
_"Yes!_  We're going on a wolf hunt, I hope we catch a big one..."  
  
"Oh, God, don't sing...."  
  
"Going on a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt..."  
  
"...If I die of embarrassment, you're doing this alone."  
  
"Whatever, man.  _Werewolf!_  We're off to fight the werewolf, the werewolf, the werewolf, we're off to fight the werewolf..."  
  
"Because you told me so."  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
(End)


	2. DED PONEEEEEEEE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **schmevil** asked to be entertained. Possibly with dead ponies. And this popped out of my head fully formed.

"This world is full of pain and suffering," Castiel said bitterly.  
  
Dean had to do a double-take. Yeah, the case had been rough, but not that bad, really. They'd ganked the thing without too much trouble. No one had even died. Well, there had been some injuries, including a nasty gash on Sam's arm, which Dean was currently sewing up while Castiel stood on the sidelines, looking despondent. But no one had  _died._  Sam wasn't even feeling the needle, still riding an adrenalin rush, and Dean was pretty much giddy with triumph too, so...c'mon.  
  
"Dude. What crawled up your butt and died?"  
  
Castiel gave him a LOOK. It had once managed to make Dean quiver in his boots. Now it just sent an inappropriate bout of giggles bubbling up in his throat. "I have seen many terrible sights, Dean, but this is the worst."  
  
"What?" Sam asked breathlessly. He looked around, eyes wide and a little unfocused. There wasn't much of anything to see. They were out in the middle of the country at night, kneeling in wet grass, a full moon above. Just some farmer's field and the livestock the monster had been feeding on when they finally caught up with it.  
  
Castiel glowered at him, too. Sam gulped and shrank back, not yet as comfortable with him as Dean was.  
  
"Seriously, Cas," Dean said, snipping off the last thread. "I don't understand this fit of the gloomies. Everything went good for once."  
  
Castiel heaved a deep, suffering sigh, the sound of an angel in the sort eternal, unknowable pain that no mortal could even think of comprehending. He raised one hand and pointed listlessly at the field.  
  
"That poor, noble creature, one of God's most beautiful creations, struck down in the prime of life. I don't understand how it does not make you weep. Are you so utterly callous that the sight does nothing to you, to your soul? Why does this loss not move you to grief and tears? Why are you not completely undone by this terrible thing?"  
  
Dean looked. The monster had been feeding on a pony, which now lay in a pitiful heap, bathed in the moonlight, neck at a bad angle, blood running over its flanks in a sad shiny slick that shone under the stars.  
  
Okay, yeah, that was pretty sad.  
  
Not really enough to justify the downtrodden look on Castiel's face, though. He hadn't looked that depressed since Raphael said God was dead.  
  
"Awwwww," Sam said, in a voice of deepest sympathy. "Aw, Cas, you  _like_  them, don't you?"  
  
Cas tilted his head and squinted at him, utterly unamused.  
  
Dean stared at his angel friend, trying to put it together. Oh, man. He totally did.  
  
"Cas. Oh, Cas." He gulped, forcing down the giggles, which were now much, much stronger. He finished off Sam's stitches and moved over to put a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Dude, did your daddy never get you that pony you wanted? That sucks, man."  
  
"Yeah," Sam agreed, nodding from the ground in enthusiastic, if woozy support. "That sucks."  
  
"Someday..." Dean started solemnly, then coughed and started again. "Someday we'll have our own place, man, when all this is over. A nice place, with lots of room to run around. And Sammy can get married and go to law school, and I can start a garage and we'll...we'll get you a pony. We'll get you pony, I promise."  
  
Castiel stared at him for a long time. Then he finally nodded, face softening. "That would be acceptable."  
  
It was a plan.


	3. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Newsboys' "Entertaining Angels": One to another, the feelings in between/ I won't let go/ Of all you taught me, alright./ Close as a brother, the way we used to be/ I hold my breath,/ And I wait for you to breathe.

Dean said yes.

He tried to bargain first. He made Michael promise not to lay a finger on his brother, still adamant in his denial of Lucifer, or on Castiel, who stood silent and nervous in the corner, stripped of almost every shred of grace already and still reviled by heaven. "Just get rid of old snake-eyes and save the world," Dean demanded. "That's all I'm giving you permission to do with my body. No tearing across the world, no letting the horsemen run free, no more smiting. You got it?"

In the body of a children's librarian from Kentucky, Michael nodded gravely and promised that all would be well with those Dean cared for. They really should have known better than to trust him.

The transfer of an archangel from one body to another was a fireball in the room, a sun gone nova contained in too small a space. Books and papers flew in the maelstrom; motel beds slammed up against the walls like toys pushed by a tempestuous child. Sam fell to the floor and buried his head in both arms, heard the distant thump of Castiel's body hitting the floor on the other side of the room. The wind ripped at his hair and painful white light leaked in even through the tight press of flesh protecting his eyes.

When the wind died and the light fled, Sam cautiously raised his head, blinking furiously at the stinging in his eyes. Dean and Michael were gone, vanished. He saw the librarian in a limp heap, chest rising slow and peaceful in unconsciousness. 

Castiel lay on the floor opposite him, and he was too quiet, too still. Then Sam saw the blood.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, as still as Castiel's. He scrambled across the empty-blasted middle of the floor on hands and knees, pushing himself across the heat-singed carpet, not even bothering to get to his feet. The only movement in Castiel was the blood, sliding from his nose, his mouth, the corner of a closed eyelid.

"Cas." The word was a fearful breath. Sam drew the slack shoulders and head into his lap, ran a trembling down a cool white cheek. "Cas!"

A bone-deep cough rattled through Castiel, shaking through his entire body, and red-rimmed eyes fluttered open. He couldn't seem to focus on Sam, though he knew he was there, shaking fingers fumbling for Sam's sleeve and winding through the fabric. "Here. I'm...here."

For now, Sam heard, and clutched him closer. "What...what happened?"

"Michael...did not harm you?" A bloody eyelid fluttered, unable to keep open.

Sam sobbed, bitter. "No. Not the same for you, obviously."

"Then the Winchester brothers are unharmed. That is well."

Sam shook his head. No no no. You're our brother, too. "But why...why would he do this to you?"

"Michael must...kill one of his brothers, now. Lucifer. Perhaps I was practice." Castiel coughed again, more blood spilling past his lips. Sam's fingers tightened.

"But Dean told him, Dean made a deal..."

"No promise to a mere man can stay the hand of an archangel from dealing justice." Castiel closed his eyes on a sigh and lay very still, preserving what strength he had left. "I disobeyed. I rebelled. I slew my brothers. I earned this death."

"No. No, Cas, that's not fair."

"It is just." Castiel nodded once, slow and shaky, and fell still again.

Sam held his breath and waited for him to breathe.


	4. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel can't come into Bobby's house after Castiel angel-proofed it.

Maybe it was Sam's imagination, but Bobby's house seemed to feel somehow...safer than it had in the past. After the morning he went for a jog and came back to find Castiel lounging on a junker, soaking in the sun (and not answering questions, with his typical Castiel-ness), the whole property seemed to exude waves of security, the relaxation and relief of complete freedom from danger. As soon as the Impala crossed beneath the sign for Singer's Auto Salvage, the second their feet passed over the threshold or clattered on the porch, Sam found it easier to breathe. He didn't know if it was his old psychic abilities or what, but the sense of refuge and sanctuary was undeniable.  
  
Dean seemed to feel it too. They spent more time at Bobby's, as much for their own sake as to keep Bobby company after the second loss of his wife. Dean hung out with Bobby, doing whatever the older man would let him do, and Sam read books, always books. There was always more to learn.  
  
In an ancient Greek volume, Sam came across a few rituals in what looked like Enochian glyphs. He recognized a few from the blood spells both Anna and Castiel had taught them, but he didn't know enough to translate the text, or even figure out what the rituals were for. The solution was simple enough, though; he just called Castiel on his cell, asked him to come over and help. Castiel agreed, as he almost always did.  
  
Sam hefted the leather-bound tome in his hands and stood in the middle of the room in a shaft of yellow sunlight, idly flipping through the pages as he waited for Cas to appear. It usually didn't take long. He was distantly surprised that the guy hadn't shown up the instant they spoke on the phone.  
  
Someone knocked on the door. Sam didn't look up, expecting Dean or Bobby to get it. He was waiting for Cas.  
  
After a few moments, again came the knock, just as gentle and measured as before. Whoever the visitor was, they were polite. Sam looked up, remembered that Dean and Bobby had taken the tow truck on a job and wouldn't be back for awhile.  
  
He crossed to the door, opened it, still in the back of his mind waiting for Castiel to show up in the middle of the room, hoping he didn't do it while the visitor was watching, whoever it was. But there at the door was a slump-shouldered figure in a long tan coat, lines around his eyes, expression serious and worn.  
  
"Cas!" Sam blinked. Maybe Dean's talks about personal space and human manners had finally had an impact. He pushed the door open and stood back. "Come on in."  
  
Cas didn't even twitch. "I can't."  
  
Sam looked at him, then into the house, the back. There were no obvious angel-repelling objects lying around, like Dean watching porn. "Why?"  
  
Castiel pointed at the lintel. "I warded the house."

Sam followed his finger. He saw a barely-visible sigil, blending in with the grain of the wood, almost as if it had been grown on the door instead of painted. It didn't look like Enochian...Sanskrit, maybe? Now that it had been pointed out to him, he saw other symbols buried in the woodwork, too, in a host of languages, some he knew and some he didn't, trailing down both jambs and into the floor, out onto the porch and along the railings, and even on some of the cars outside....  
  
He turned around, picking out more symbols on the windows, the walls, twisted in the fabric of the curtains and the whorls in the stained carpeting. He'd never noticed them before, probably because Castiel hadn't wanted him to, but now he saw them everywhere. Everywhere.  
  
"Oh my God."  
  
Cas flinched, and Sam grimaced. "Sorry. The whole house?"  
  
Castiel nodded, casual and unconcerned, as if he'd done nothing more than bake a pan of Sam's favorite brownies. Which would also have been awesome, but nothing like this. "The whole property?"  
  
Castiel nodded again, a touch impatiently. "What did you need my assistance with?"  
  
Sam glanced down at the book in his hands and couldn't remember what he'd wanted with it. He looked back to Castiel, helpless. "But...you made a refuge you can't even use?"  
  
Castiel's eyebrows bent, head tilting slightly in that same old look of sweet confusion that now made a laugh stutter up in Sam's throat. "Of course. It is for you."  
  
Sam stepped out on the porch and closed the door behind him. Bobby had a porch swing, little used, dusty in the new April sunlight. "Let's sit out here. At least it's a nice day."  
  
Later he would call Dean, force him to bring back pizza and beer, and they would eat on the porch, clinking bottles and cracking jokes as spring sunset fell cool around them. Bobby would smile sadly through his beard at them, his boys. Dean's eyes would crinkle with laughter whenever Castiel shook his head in exasperation at a reference he didn't understand and Sam earnestly tried to explain, to excuse his brother's buffoonery. That was later.  
  
For now they sat on the porch swing and talked about old languages, and Sam didn't mind at all.


	5. Oh My God, Becky, Calm the Fuck Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk!Cas. Rock Band. Go.

"But  _why_  is there no disco stick song on this machine? There was on the one in that bar."  
  
"That was karaoke, Cas. This is Rock Band. They aren't the same thing."  
  
"But  _why."_  
  
"Look, dude, Becky already bought all the Lady Gaga songs you can get. You'll have to pick from this list."  
  
"But there are only  _four."_  
  
"I know. It's a terrible affront to God and man. Pick."  
  
"And you will play guitar?"  
  
"Yes, Cas."  
  
"And Sam, you will play drums?"  
  
"Yes, Cas."  
  
"And Becky will play bass?"  
  
"Yeah! I'm totally great at it, you can't even guess!"  
  
"And you won't quit like you did last time? I was so disappointed in you, Dean.  _So. Very. Disappointed."_  
  
"No, Cas. I won't quit in the middle because these stupid buttons don't work right and I don't know what the whammy bar is for and Becky wouldn't stop yelling at me to start Star Power. I will stand it like a man and suffer through it. For you. Because you love Lady Gaga."  
  
"Do you promise? Do you  _swear_  as God is your witness?"  
  
"Yes, Cas. I swear."  
  
...  
  
"Very well. I wish to sing this  _Bad Romance."_  
  
And the band played on.


	6. Tit for Tat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Free Will: Bible Camp - Angels are susceptible to PTSD too, especially if they're losing their mojo.

Cas looks even more rumpled and worn than usual. The light on the street is dim here, on the way back to another motel from another bar, and Dean's eyes are blurred with drink. But he thinks maybe Castiel's hands are shaking, a little, before he hides them in the folds of his trench coat. Dean's had enough alcohol to make him sleep, but not quite enough to make him stupid.  
  
Dean must be used to Cas showing up out of the blue. He didn't even flinch this time. "Hey, man. What's up?"  
  
Cas draws a breath. "I am..."   
  
It isn't like the angel to lose his words. Dean tilts his head to him, narrows his eyes, listens harder.  
  
"May, may I stay with you for a time?"  
  
Dean shrugs easily. "Sure, whatever. C'mon, the motel's that way."  
  
Dean flops into bed immediately, but he's pretty sure Castiel spends the night. When they wake up the next morning, though, the angel is gone.  
  
\--  
  
"I'm sorry," Castiel says, running his fingers through his hair, making it even more disheveled. He's starting to look like a hobo, Dean thinks with an inward smirk. "I...I am becoming less and less powerful with every day. I should have been able to...to..."  
  
"It's okay," Sam says through gritted teeth, looking the other way as Dean cleans and bandages the jagged bite marks on his arm. "I'm fine."  
  
Castiel stares at the bloody flesh with misery. To Dean's surprise, he doesn't take off, but sits there and watches until Dean is done. He spends the night that time, too.  
  
Dean wakes up to take a leak in the dead of night. On his way back to bed he is almost started by the still, dark figure in the corner of the room, only visible now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness after waking. It is Castiel sitting in the room's ratty armchair, his head tipped back. Dean can hear his breathing over Sam's, low and erratic.  
  
He approaches, curious, watches his familiar angel sleep, sees sweat shining at his hairline, eyelids and fingers twitching. He's dreaming. Who'da thunk. Poor guy really is turning human, not just needing to sleep but doing the mental aerobatics, too. And it doesn't look like it's a good dream, either.  
  
He's a hobo, but he's their hobo. Sam always wanted to take in the strays when they were little, and it looks like he finally got his wish. Dean can't just leave the guy alone in a nightmare.  
  
He reaches out to shake Cas's shoulder, tap his cheek, something, but the angel's eyes fly open before his fingers touch down. He stares at Dean for a split second, eyes wide with the whites standing out in the dimness. He's almost shrinking back into the upholstery, shoulders hunched and tight, hands gripping the arms of the chair.   
  
Then he vanishes in a flutter of wings, and Dean curses quietly in the empty air. He goes back to bed, grumbling with no one to hear it but himself.  
  
\--  
  
Sam has been irritable and pissy for two whole days now, snapping for no reason, snarking back a little too sharply, a little too meanly, when Dean teases him. At first Dean lets his irritation rise to meet his brother's, and their barbs get sharper and harder, until they end it with a giant food-fight-cum-wrestling-match to clear the air. Dean ends up sitting on Sam's chest, staring down into his panting face and holding his wrists above his head.  
  
"Now tell me what's been bugging you, you big baby," he demands.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, then his body, forcing Dean off him with a muffled grunt. He pushes himself up to sit against the end of the bend, making a face as he brushes a strand of spaghetti from the comforter to the floor. "It's just...do you think maybe the demon blood... You keep saying I'm still human, but what if..."  
  
Dean huffs and sits up straighter, facing his little brother head on. "Just spit it out, Sam. What is it?"  
  
"Cas won't let me touch him anymore," Sam gets out all in a rush. He blushes and looks away immediately. "I mean, it sounds stupid, but it never seemed to bother him before. He even shook my hand that first time, when I don't think he even liked me. And now we're kind of...friends, right? But all of a sudden I can't even brush his arm with mine when we're walking or he flinches away and avoids me and..."

Dean frowns, mind spinning backward over the last few weeks of interaction with their angel friend. Sam gasps, mistaking it for agreement. "Oh, man, you think so too, you think the demon blood is just too much for an angel to..."  
  
"What? No. Shut up, Sam." Dean shakes his head. "I really don't think this is about you, man. He...he's been avoiding me, too. I didn't notice until you pointed it out, but...yeah. All of a sudden it's like he doesn't want to be touched by anyone. Not me, not you, not even people on the street. Something's going on, man."  
  
Sam has gone quiet, still and thoughtful, bent deep in concentration like that statue of the guy who is thinking so hard his toes curl into the dirt with the effort. "Something's going on with Castiel," he echoes.  
  
And they stare at each other, sharing a hundred questions and no answers.  
  
\--  
  
"Wanna stick around?" Dean asks after the next case, deliberately casual. "It's gotta be a long flight back to...where-the-hell-ever. We were gonna watch that monster movie marathon on the SyFy channel. Your cultural education still needs work."  
  
Castiel watches him thoughtfully, keeping a careful distance of three feet, as he had been doing at all times. Now, ironically, Dean misses the personal space invasions. The guy looks more weary and lost than ever before. Even his coat is gathering stains and tears, places where the fabric has worn through.  
  
"Very well," Castiel says slowly. "And perhaps we can have...pizza?"  
  
Dean grins and nods. Castiel has displayed a careful avoidance of red meat since Famine, but pizza is the first human food he had tried all on his own, and liked. Dean does not at all mind humoring his newfound tastes.  
  
Sam and Dean convince Castiel that proper movie-watching involves shoving the beds together and all sitting in a row against the headboards, fighting over the remote during commercials and doing their best not to kick the pizza boxes off the ends of the beds. Through various maneuvers they get Castiel sitting between them, make him lose the trench coat and kick off his shoes, legs stretched out in front of him and wiggling toes poking through holey black business socks.   
  
At first Castiel's shoulders are hunched and tense, but gradually they loosen, relax. Sam and Dean talk over the movies, making fun of the bad effects and comparing the monsters to the ones they face. Castiel is silent, listening, occasionally with a small, hesitant smile they almost don't see.  
  
It's the best slumber-party-at-the-end-of-the-world ever.  
  
Dean refrains from doing victory arms or a fist pump when Castiel falls asleep on his shoulder. While it was his true objective for the evening, celebration now would probably ruin it.  
  
\--  
  
After midnight, Sam settles down in his own bed, snoring in the deep sleep of the mostly-just. Dean doesn't sleep much nowadays, but he watches the infomercials, occasionally flipping channels to see if anything else is on and not finding anything. He and Cas have slipped down on the pillows, still partly propped on the headboard, the angel's eyelashes brushing Dean's t-shirt-clad shoulder. Dean has slipped an arm around the guy, partly because it's more comfortable, partly to keep him from flying off again.  
  
Eventually it comes as he expects it to--Cas begins to twitch and jerk in his sleep, though he doesn't make a sound, lips clenched even in unconsciousness. Dean turns his head and watches from the distance of inches, sees the sweat beading, the eyelids fluttering. It's a bad dream; Dean knows.  
  
He sets the remote aside, wraps his arm more firmly around the trembling shoulders, and takes hold of a limp wrist to give it a shake. "Hey, Cas. Hey, buddy. Wake up."  
  
Castiel wakes with a jerk, instantly tense. Dean can feel the alarm thrumming through him, all through the warm length pressed against Dean's side. The angel stares to Dean's left, creepily blank, instantly alert and guarded. Dean gets it, he does.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asks.  
  
"Angels don't dream."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
Castiel tenses even more, impossibly, turns his head to stare at the flickering, mute television. His breath is quickening; he wants to pull away, escape the closeness. He'd fly if he could do it while leaving Dean behind, but Dean grips his shoulders and holds on, makes himself a weight around the angel's neck.  
  
Dean breathes out, sucks in air and smells sweat and blood and the stale pizza on the floor. "C'mon, Cas. I know what this is. You're having nightmares. You watch people too closely, avoid being touched. You like being around me and Sam because we make you feel better, but even then you don't want to be too close. I  _know_  this, man. I know exactly what this is. Maybe angels don't dream, yeah, but maybe angels who are losing their mojo do. You're more like us and I'm sorry, but it is what is and we have to deal with it."  
  
Castiel breathes, in and out. Slowly, slowly, a little of the tension leaks out of his body. He turns his head, ducks it down against Dean's shoulder so Dean can't see his eyes. "Angels don't dream," he says again. "These are memories."  
  
"Tell me about them."  
  
"I don't want to."  
  
He sounds like a child. Dean blinks up at the ceiling, denying the moisture gathering at the edges of his eyes. Yeah, he knows that, too.  
  
"Tell me anyway."  
  
Castiel's fingers curl in the front of Dean's shirt. "Why are you so eager to help me when you won't let yourself be helped?" He sounds genuinely curious, but also exasperated, irritated.  
  
Dean can't really blame him. "Because helping others is easier than helping yourself. You've been watching humans for millennia--you hadn't figured that out?"  
  
Castiel grunts a grudging acknowledgment. "I will not let you help me unless you let me help you."  
  
It's ridiculous. It also makes as much sense as anything in their lives does.  
  
"Sounds fair." Dean braces himself. "You already know everything about me, man. Return the favor. Then we'll figure something out."  
  
They are silent in the dark, breathing. "Very well."  
  
Dean nods. And waits.  
  
"You already know that Heaven can be as cruel as Hell. Their treatment drove Anna insane. It nearly did the same to me."  
  
Dean listens. He can hear Sam's stuttered breathing on the next bed, knows he's awake and listening too.  
  
It's a start.

(End)


	7. They Withered All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel plants in the Garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from [](https://slinkymilinky.livejournal.com/profile)[ **slinkymilinky**](https://slinkymilinky.livejournal.com/)  at [](https://sharp-teeth.livejournal.com/profile)[ **sharp_teeth**](https://sharp-teeth.livejournal.com/). Many thanks for the first fic I've finished for months.

They said Father was dead, and finally, after a long time, Castiel believed them. He knew quite well that he was mad now. It didn't much trouble him.  
  
His mind had once been as expansive as a star, ever growing and ever full, sending and receiving all the light of the universe. Now it was narrowed, collapsed, crowded within like the bookstore on a quiet street in a dirty city where he'd visited while looking for God. Crammed with books and papers on every shelf, dusty and disorganized, some upside-down, some falling apart. He could never find what he was looking for in there, and eventually he stopped trying.   
  
Bits of tarnished memories rose as they wished, information faded and worn, useless. He let them come as they might. Scraps of old conversations, images of battles eons gone, worthless poems and rhymes of silly, human extraction.  
  
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?"  
  
To angelic eyes, the Garden was a vast space full of worlds. It was all of Creation laid out to be tended, bright and beautiful, fountains of golden light and blue shadow and red darkness—there Earth, there Heaven, there Hell. All full of humans. It was all for them. Joshua had been charged with the tending of the Garden, keeping the seasons on Earth rolling one after the other with enough storms keep the planet well-aerated without destroying it utterly. He made sure Hell got plenty of heat and kept Heaven in partial shade, blooming best in moonlight. There were many other worlds, too, of course. Their Father had been endlessly creative, when He'd been alive and caring.   
  
"Silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row, a row, a row, a row, a row..." The rhythm of those two words pleased Castiel, and so he repeated them again and again, untiring. He said them in English and Greek and Farsi and Enochian and several other languages that didn't have names. His voice was the only one he heard, so he might as well use it.  
  
The Garden was rotting now.  
  
Joshua watched with flat accusing eyes, distant but always watching, always open, as Castiel planted his new seeds. Blackened and bloody, he tore them out like crumbling coals, from this wing, that wing, this wing. Castiel had six wings. He had many feathers.  
  
He planted them in swirling, viscous nebulae, the once-rich soil of his father's nurturing will. It had grown fallow in time, depleted by the worlds grown out of its bosom. But enough power was left, swirling, dark, corrupted, to nourish Castiel's seeds. Soon he would see a crop. A vicious, beautiful crop, one fit to end the endless.  
  
Gabriel and Michael and Raphael and Zachariah and Anna and Uriel all watched with their flat, empty eyes. He could feel them watching, and he sang to keep them company.  
  
"A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket. I wrote a letter to my love and on the way I dropped it. I dropped it, I dropped it, and on the way I dropped it. I wrote a letter to my love and on my way I dropped it. A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket..."  
  
He thrust a finger into the soil to make room for his seed and pushed it, hard and strong, twisting the broken feather until it broke even more. "He dropped it, he dropped it, and on the way he dropped it, I gave a letter to my love and on the way to Hell he dropped it..."  
  
The angels watched him with their dead, twisted eyes in the shells of their empty flesh, the black smoke wings outlined behind their vessels, the sword wounds in their chests still dripping, dripping, dripping, just like the blood off Castiel's wings, everywhere he'd pulled out another feather.  
  
"He dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it..."  
  
Still Castiel sang as he worked and planted and patted and nurtured and grew. He worked beside Heaven and Hell and Earth and a thousand other universes, planting his feathers tenderly around each corrupted, life-filled world, a wisp of grey-blue smoke rising to mark every planting. And behind him, in the light of darkened blue stars and bloody moons, sprouts began to twist upward from the planted feathers. First one, then another, then two more, then a dozen and more and scores and hundreds and thousands and all.  
  
Castiel's crop was growing. Soon it would be mature, ready for the harvest and the black, bitter winter. Soon, soon enough.  
  
"A tisket a tasket, how does your garden grow? I would give you a violet, but they withered all. They withered all when my father died. I wrote a letter to my love and on the way he dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it, he dropped it."  
  
Castiel worked and sang and bled, and around him the Garden grew and rotted, glowed and faded. And the angels watched with their dead, dead eyes.  
  
(End)


End file.
